


I Will Take The Dark Part Of Your Heart (Into My Heart)

by th_esaurus



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Consent Issues, M/M, Post-Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-21 00:03:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1530632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is temporarily unemployed, and entertains a houseguest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Take The Dark Part Of Your Heart (Into My Heart)

They don't go to Russia. Of course they don't. There's no treasury to fund their undercover jaunts, no paperwork to keep it half official, no coordination or planning. So of course they don't.

 

Steve keeps the file buried under Bill Bryson's _Short History of Nearly Everything_ and his presidential autobiographies, at the bottom of a moving box. Sam would've helped him find his friend; instead, Sam helps him find a new place.

 

He loses his deposit on the first apartment. Landlords don't look kindly on gunshots decorating their beige walls.

 

He finds a studio listing peppered with the words _cosy_ and _inventively spacious_ , and it's still larger than the place he shared with his Ma for thirteen-some years. Sam buys him groceries without being asked, and rather than shame, Steve just feels grateful. This, he supposes, is living life without orders.

 

Steve's still living out of cardboard when Bucky starts hiding in the unfamiliar shadows.

 

"Jeez. Lemme send out my moving cards first, Buck," Steve says, untying his running shoes and trying to sound light. He's foolish enough to hope Bucky'll laugh, but not foolish enough to expect it.

 

He's quiet in an inhuman way. Breathing silent as a spy, the entomic ticking down of his metal arm not long ago used. Steve assumes he came by the rooftops.

 

He's not hungry, not after a cross-country, but he makes dinner all the same and it takes effort to split it between two plates. Sits and eats his salad, drinks his off-brand juice, and feigns reading the paper that he skimmed cover-to-cover that morning. Bucky sits across the room from him, where the light from DC's nightscape doesn't quite shine. He's on a stool, the only one in the apartment, Steve's furniture entirely mismatched, with his boots up on the crossbar. It makes him look stockier than he is, dark clothes against dark walls.

 

Steve can still remember what it was like looking up and seeing the fan of Bucky's eyelashes from below.

 

Once, back in Brooklyn, all the electrics in Steve's apartment blinked out. All at once, like a sudden blindness or euphoria. The two of them stumbled around hollering and laughing, nothing expensive to worry about smashing. Loud and boisterous, Bucky grabbed at Steve's skinny waist and whined into his neck that he couldn't find his cot bed in this damn dastardly darkness.

 

Bucky doesn't eat. Steve takes a couple of bites from the second plate, half-heartedly goading.

 

He has evening ablutions to see to. He's tired and had hoped for an early night. He has briefings and debriefings daily, with organisations that are no longer organised. He wants to unpack, though he only has two years of lifetime to put on drawers and shelves. Instead, Steve cleans away the plates, changes out of his running tee, consults his list and fires up Netflix.

 

"What'll it be, then? I've got _Rocky_ , _Star Wars_ or _Jackie Brown_."

 

When he looks up, the corner is dark and empty, and the small, thin window is open.

 

*

 

It's four days later, almost to the hour. The table is scattered with files and beer bottles and scraps of paper with Russian letters scribbled, undecoded, all over them. Steve wishes Natasha were here to save him all the leg work, but he hasn't yet told her his reasons for picking up this cold case.

 

It's not a matter of trust. He's just not altruistic enough to bring her in yet.

 

The beer hasn't left him with even the slightest buzz, and he feels weary in his muscles in a way his legend doesn't let him admit. Steve gets up, stretches until his fingertips hit the ceiling, and closes Bucky's file roughly with his foot. A few pieces of paper and a tea-stained photograph skitter across Steve's coffee table, and he's paranoid enough to frown, stack everything together and stash them in a kitchen cupboard alongside his pair of mismatched bowls.

 

He puts the photo in the pocket of his slacks.

 

Bucky always had his photograph snapped at fairs with whichever dame had caught his eye that night; always. If there was no dame, he'd grab Steve and tuck him beneath his arm and grin wide and crooked for the flash, keeping Steve in his grip until the blinking and the shimmering passed.

 

He never had the nickels spare to buy them.

 

So many old photographs of James Buchanan Barnes must exist in landfills across the state of New York. Faded beyond all recognition.

 

*

 

Sleeplessness does not surprise Steve these days. Maybe uninvited houseguests at unholy hours shouldn't either.

 

He dreams of Bucky, always has. Dark haired, blue eyed, his skin pink and grey where it's visible at all.

 

Steve reaches up touch him and only then realises how close Bucky is. His legs astride Steve's waist, borrowed jeans too big, borrowed jacket unkempt. Borrowed is a polite term for it.

 

"Bed's big enough for two," Steve murmurs, tired.

 

Bucky had put a bullet in his stomach, another between his ribs, and broke Steve's cheekbone with a fist with no pulse; and that's what Steve does. Invites him into bed.

 

There not enough light in the room to give a glint of warning when Bucky lashes out. The metal arm makes noises Steve can't place in context, the muted sound of modern cars or stealth fighters, but it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter over the sound of his choked out breath.

 

Bucky's fingers are unreal and unshaking around his neck. Steve clasps both hands around the dead wrist, part of him wondering if he can crush it and most of him knowing he can't, not this tired, not this disadvantaged. Bucky's eyes, under his dark mess of hair, are the same blue they've always been.

 

It takes Steve nearly four seconds to realise he can still breathe. Bucky's hold is firm but not fatal, and his face mirrors it; cold around his mouth but flushed a little high in his cheeks. He could kill Steve. He could be killing him.

 

He sucks in a deep slow breath. Bucky allows it.

 

He sucks in a breath and his wits are gathering force and he remembers he has strong legs, strong thighs - it's easy to forget in the early mornings, when he spent more of his life on spindles than tree trunks - and he could toss Bucky. Bucky is twenty pounds heavier than when he was a stout, handsome twenty-something, and more than half of that extra is metal. It's barely a difference to Steve.

 

Bucky used to accuse him, almost proud, of looking for fights. Well, Steve looks away from this one. He lowers his arms slowly, visibly, on top of the bedsheets, holds Bucky's gaze, doesn't say _don't_ , stops himself saying _stop._ Gives Bucky a memory of someone under his hands who isn’t pleading and cussing and choking.

 

His face is unreadable. That's the worst thing; one of the worst. Bucky was always so open, his mouth slack when he was contented, tight when he was angry. He might as well still be muzzled, for all he gives away. The capacity and mechanism for emotions are all still there, the laughter lines long unused around his mouth and eyes, the hollows of his cheekbones thinner now than Steve remembers, but he can't put the puzzle pieces together and make out Bucky's innermost thoughts out of them.

 

Steve has to read between the lines of his body, instead. The way the tension drips away from his right shoulder, after a while, trickling down the curve of his back and all the way to the pads of his feet - bare; he'd taken his shoes off. Come via back alleys and sewers, maybe. It's more respect than he ever showed Steve's property as a kid.

 

The left arm makes a sound like a fuse blowing, two stories down. The hand that's strangling Steve, or, the hand that isn't quite strangling Steve, pulls back more natural than mechanical, and hangs not too awkwardly at Bucky's side.

 

Steve doesn't make a big show of breathing freely again.

 

They stay like that for a time, in the dark. Steve breathing through his nose, and Bucky cool and heavy astride him.

 

He remembers—something similar. Bucky hissing to ask if he was awake. His pants thin against the late spring warmth, even at night.

 

What does Bucky Barnes remember?

 

"You still want in?" Steve asks, his voice lost, nudging his head against the pillow.

 

*

 

Steve has an off-the-record mission briefing with two former SHIELD agents. They're both wearing jogging pants and she's holding an iced latte. They mention several times that this is informal.

 

Steve turns down the job.

 

On the walk back, he stops for a photo with a shy little boy. His bigger sister takes the snap and says the thank-yous.

 

He passes a hardware store as well. Ducks in, and comes out with a copy of his door key in his back pocket and a self-aware expression on his face.

 

When they were very young, Steve's mother never hesitated when he asked if he could stay over with Bucky and his ma; when they got older, and Steve's apartment lost a tenant, Bucky returned the favour a lot more regularly. He kept spare underwear in Steve's single chest of drawers, and they took turns with Steve's toothbrush in the mornings.

 

There had been no ceremony when Steve gave Bucky a key that time.

 

*

 

Sam invites him round for beer, and Steve tells him he can't get drunk.

 

Sam invites him round for root beer, and Steve laughs a little down the phone line, and goes. 

 

*

 

There are no real signs of a break-in, of course, but Bucky's disoriented and clumsy, more petty thief than super soldier. Slight imprints in the thin carpet from heavy boots. The smudge of a fingerprint – right handed – on the cream wall.

 

"Want a drink?" Steve calls to the apartment at large.

 

Bucky makes a noise of disgust. He's been waiting in the bedroom, whatever that means. Steve wonders what recent memories he's made that innocuous questions pull sound out of him where friendship couldn't. He knows he's going to have a lot of time to wonder about that.

 

Buck always dressed sharp. He liked to sneak into the pictures, half hiding Steve in his jacket, and the next week he'd be dressed up like a low grade Cagney or Bogart. He worked two jobs in his teens and spent the money on dames, dates and dapper kicks. He filled out a uniform properly too, probably liked the figure he cut in it.

 

He's wearing the same outfit as the other night. He's a good few weeks unshaven. He looks like another man wearing James Barnes' face.

 

Bucky leans down and carefully lifts the ankle of his jeans. There is a penknife taped there, masking tape, the blade locked open. There's a rough scab where the sharp side has scuffled with Bucky's jutting ankle bone, a little fresh like it's been picked off recently by the tip. Steve supposes it's been there for weeks. Bucky can hardly walk the streets with a RPG strapped to his back these days.

 

It occurs to Steve that Bucky must be living homeless. It occurs to Steve that self-protection and weaponry are different necessities.

 

Bucky pulls the penknife away from his skin and looks at Steve all the while he places it carefully on the nearest tabletop. An offering. Not peace. A safeguard.

 

Steve's shield is propped against the wall in the kitchenette, and he makes sure Bucky's gaze follows his to it. Another offering and not a threat.

 

"Is this what passes for small talk in your circles these days?" Steve says, hating the tension between them.

 

Bucky had put a bullet in his stomach. Another between his ribs. Missed the vital organs, missed the heart. Tried to strangle him. Tried not strangling him.

 

"Come--come here," Steve mutters, and he tries so hard to make it sound like a request. Bucky approaches in fits and starts, leaving his knife on the table.

 

Steve just--wants to sit with his friend on the sofa, and tries so hard not to feel selfish about it.

 

*

 

Bruce Banner calls and asks if Steve wants to grab coffee. He's in the city for a conference, and says the word like he can scarcely believe it. A relic from dignity he long thought he'd lost. Steve immediately offers to accompany Bruce, but he answers with a smile and says Steve's third in line to watch his back. Tony's going with him; might get some use out of all the scientific academia, if he's feeling particularly bullish, Bruce says, or at the very least he can abuse the free bar.

 

Bruce meets Steve at Starbucks, cradling his herbal tea.

 

"People speak so much in euphemisms these days," Steve says, sliding into an armchair next to him, "I wasn't sure whether you really meant coffee or—something stronger."

 

He's not talking about whiskey and Bruce smiles like he knows it.

 

They shake hands and catch up quietly. Bruce has access to a lab again, assistants, research material; he's writing a paper on the distinct blood groups of the Chitauri; not his usual field, he admits, but every man needs hobbies.

 

He sips his cooling tea and pushes his glasses a little up the bridge of his nose. "I heard about your—altercations," he tries, tactfully.

 

"Yeah," Steve murmurs. "The dismantling—"

 

"That's not—well, it is a big deal and we'll handle it in our own time, I suppose, but--" Bruce looks a little pained. "I've had former agents approach me about certain projects. Under the table."

 

"Yeah," Steve sighs again. He leans back in his chair, stretches up. The ceiling is covered with faux-abstract daubs and swirls that are probably identical in every franchise in the city. "It's been mentioned."

 

Bruce raises his hands in a show of peace, and Steve nods gratefully. It isn't brought up further, and they shake hands again when Bruce looks at his watch and apologises.

 

"We should do this again sometime," Steve tells him in earnest.

 

"Coffee," Bruce says, a little wry, "Or something stronger?"

 

*

 

Steve gets home and nobody is waiting for him. He checks the bathroom. He hangs out the bedroom window and squints at the rooftops.

 

Fragments of SHIELD are approaching each of the Avengers in turn, trying to smoke out the Winter Soldier, and nobody is waiting for him. He thinks about calling Natasha, takes a deep breath, and makes pasta instead.

 

*

 

Bucky crawls into his bed at 2.30am and presses his damp lips against the nape of Steve's neck. His metal hand comes to rest nearish Steve's throat, just in case, but the rest of him curls up in the negative space between Steve's body and the bedsheets. Steve can feel those same stolen jeans pressed against the backs of his legs.

 

When Steve was fifteen and Bucky a year behind, Bucky had let himself into Steve's apartment at some godforsaken hour of the night. Steve's mother was sweating in her sleep but didn't wake, and it was Steve's turn for the couch; big enough that he could lie with his legs bent up but not outstretched. No room for Bucky between Steve and the cushions. They went top-to-tail instead. Bucky's feet tucked under Steve's armpits.

 

Maybe Bucky's cracked windows at home were letting in more autumn air than usual that night. Maybe Bucky's father had been home. Maybe Bucky had been out with a girl three years his senior.

 

His feet tucked under Steve's armpits, and their thighs pressed together.

 

"Buck—" Steve murmurs.

 

"Shut up," Bucky replies.

 

Steve presses his eyes shut and thinks long and hard about what to say. "Buck. This is nice and all but you smell like a dead skunk left under someone's porch."

 

Bucky snorts, and his flesh hand twitches, and Steve breathes out.

 

Carefully, he disentangles himself from Bucky.

 

He has no bath, but the shower is decent and he can deal with neighbourly complaints about late-night shenanigans with a smile tomorrow morning. He finds a clean towel, sets out soap and shampoo, puts his razor by the sink and then thinks better of that; tucks it away in the bathroom cabinet.

 

Bucky watches him from the doorway. Steve thinks Bucky's probably been clocking up a lot of hours watching him these past few weeks.

 

He's not going to help Bucky undress. Jesus, Bucky is his best friend, not his ward.

 

He does, though, grab his copy of _Argumentative_ , close the toilet lit, and settle down. The pages of his book will probably curl; the ventilation's poor in here. It's no bother.

 

Did he and Bucky ever share a tin bathtub out of necessity?

 

Bucky stands motionless under the running water for a long time. Steve can see him through the glass, just steamed up rather than frosted. His hair looks strange and dark slicked down, his chin turned up to face the showerhead. It makes him look like something pulled out of the depths of the ocean. The water dances off his metal arm, its segmentation all perfectly flat and watertight; bulletproof. The red star branded onto his shoulder looks worn, like he's scrubbed at it with knuckles and sandpaper.

 

He looks heavily trained, but underfed. "When did you last eat?" Steve asks conversationally. "Bucky?"

 

After maybe ten minutes, Bucky starts moving, cleaning himself slowly and methodically. Steve watches him for a moment longer, then turns back to his book, turns a page.

 

Did he and Bucky ever share a tin bathtub out of choice?

 

Steve's not an idiot. It's something he's been accused of a few times over the years. Mainly by Bucky, and mainly in jest, but on occasion it's flung at him with genuine venom. But he's not an idiot. He knows this is dangerous. He knows it may be fruitless.

 

He knows Bucky has started getting himself off in Steve's shower.

 

Bucky always—

 

His best friend always—

 

He would come over frustrated and smelling of girls' perfume sometimes. That's all.

 

Steve closes his book carefully and puts it on the bathroom floor between his feet. It wasn't agreeing with him anyway. He steeples his fingers together, stares at the towel rack. Looks back at the shower.

 

He can see the murky peach of Bucky's body leaning against the wet tiles. The steady back and forth of his left arm; muscle memory in fake muscles that never existed when he did this before.

 

Steve jumps up with a stutter, pulls open the shower door. The steam hits him like a sudden sweat and without thinking, he reaches out, puts his wide palm on Bucky's shoulder.

 

It occurs to him that Bucky's reflexes are probably, at this stage, fairly automated. That he's killed men for far less.

 

"Buck, you can—" he says, looking at Bucky's face and nowhere else. "You were right-handed."

 

Carefully, he reaches down through the water. Takes Bucky's hard hand away from his dick. Leans in further, his short sleeves turning speckled transparent under the showerhead. He gets his fingers around Bucky's right hand and pulls it a little towards him. Stops just short of physically wrapping it around Bucky's erection.

 

"You're right-handed," Steve mutters, and slides the shower door closed again.

 

Towels dry his hand and forearm.

 

Heads out into the bedroom and opens a window. To help with the condensation.

 

*

 

When they were taking stock and making plans in a hollowed out rock next to a disused dam, Fury's arm still in a sling and stitches on his forehead, he had asked Steve flatly if he and Barnes had ever had physical relations.

 

It was a sensible question, from the Director's standpoint. Judging how bruised Steve already was for a mission that would leave lasting marks.

 

Everyone had been sitting around the table when he asked.

 

"No," Steve muttered angrily, truthfully, and stood, and left the room.

 

*

 

"Catch," Steve calls as a heads-up, and tosses Bucky the spare key to his apartment. Bucky catches it with a dexterity he might not have had when they were young. "Just, you know, so you'll stop climbing through my window like an asshole. Someone's gonna call the cops on you."

 

"That's never ended well," Bucky says, almost mildly. A whole, full sentence.

 

*

 

He would have gone to Russia for Bucky. He spent his entire youth in the state of New York, went to England with the army, Germany and Austria; but Russia had singularly never appealed. Dark departments in concrete corridors with agendas the likes of which Steve refused to fathom.

 

He would have crawled through shit for Bucky, and is desperately glad that Bucky made it easier.

 

Easier, he supposes, even if it's harder in all the ways that count.

 

 


End file.
